


Afternoon Delight

by badass_normal



Category: Prison Break
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-20
Updated: 2010-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-11 04:23:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/108337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badass_normal/pseuds/badass_normal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Long after Lincoln and Sara have left them, Michael and Sofia share a moment on the beach.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afternoon Delight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vivian](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=vivian).



While there's nothing that says "calm," "peace," and "beauty" quite like the ocean does, when struck by a certain mood, there's also nothing that screams "metaphor for sex and really really hot orgasms," like the crashing of powerful waves and the receding tide.

And Michael happens to be in that sort of a mood.

Michael reasons that it's mostly impossible to live with a woman who looks like Sofia does for a many years without occasionally thinking of her in sexual terms. He likes her as a person, and most of the time he manages to view her as a sister-in-law.

But there are inevitably times when he has to consciously avoid watching her too closely, has to avoid thinking about what she and his brother used to get up to behind closed doors. Now, though, he allows himself to indulge, at the same time paradoxically hoping she is unaware of his gaze and that that she knows he's watching her.

She's wearing a navy bathing suit, the one that she used to wear on those playful evenings when he and Sara and she and Lincoln would romp in the waves, the couples maintaining a short distance between each other to define boundaries, all those years ago before Lincoln and Sara had run off together. He has to admit that it's really her legs; he's always been a legs-man rather than a breast-man, and she's really all legs. He can't remember the time when he would have felt guilty for his appreciation of them.

"Do you like the view?" she calls out, breaking him from his reverie, and he sighs. Of course she knows he's watching.

"Yes, as a matter of fact," he replies, approaching her. "I'll never get tired of looking out at this. The endless horizon."

She laughs as he comes up next to her. "All horizons are endless, Michael. And that wasn't what I meant." She smiles, her eyes raking over his naked torso appreciatively.

"I can look but not touch, right?" he smirks, uncharacteristically flirty.

Without warning, she grabs onto his arm and with a strength that takes him by surprise drags him into the waves with her.

The thing about the Panamanian ocean: it's warm. Warm enough that it has absolutely no effect as a turn-off. So as they wrestle in the waves, and though their behavior is completely innocent to any casual observer, the way her hands land on him is mildly exciting. As they drift into slightly deeper waters, it becomes fairly childish horseplay with touches that linger occasionally too long in places that are calculated to achieve a hint of seduction. He throws her over his shoulders into the water with a splash, but allows his hands to drag down her legs as she goes. She tackles him, dunks him, but her fingers ghost over his chest in a way that can't be innocent.

He thinks they're like two teenagers, taking advantage of the circumstances to subtly communicate a passing sexual desire for each other that really shouldn't be acted upon.

It ends with her clutching his shoulders, breathless, and his hand absently drifts over the curve of slim her waist. He's hard, and he's pretty sure she knows it, but if the light mirth dancing in her eyes is anything to go by, she's definitely not taking it too seriously, and neither should he.

Then she leans forward and brushes her lips gently against his, and in the end, he's glad she made the first move. She pulls away, tentatively looking for permission to do it again, which he wouldn't have expected of her, but he answers by taking her cheek in his other hand and kissing her, an intense, deep kiss that is intended to leave her utterly defenseless. Because he never does anything half-heartedly, and that is the endgame of this, after all.

"Are you sure about this?" she asks huskily when they break for air, her lips swollen and dark from being kissed by his. Her hand drops heavily to the base of his neck.

He doesn't answer, simply moves his hands to clutch her rear and lift her, and she's weightless in the water. Wrapping her legs around his waist, she once again closes the distance between their mouths, delving her tongue between his lips and seeking out his own. One of her hands drifts down between them, to the slight bulge in his swim trunks, and cups him expertly before slipping her hand inside. There's the bizarre sensation of the warm water rushing against his cock, although it's now pretty familiar from dozens of submerged experiences with Sara, along with the warm feel of her skin, and he groans softly into her mouth.

She wraps her hand around him and strokes him thoroughly, and her swim suit's top has slipped so her breasts are pressed tightly against his chest, and it's just a little too much to handle, so he grabs her wrist and pulls it away.

"Let's—" he gestures with his head toward the beach, and she nods, planting another firm kiss on him before disentangling her limbs from his.

He gently uncurls her body out on the sand, their legs still occasionally being wrapped up and caressed by the tide. His mouth trails kisses along her jaw and her hands run down his biceps, and he moves his hands from her hips slowly up her waist until they're high enough that his thumbs can trace over her nipples. She whimpers against his mouth as he feels them harden at his touch, and a satisfied smirk twists his lips. He moved his right hand to cup her left breast entirely, gently kneading her with his fingers until her breathing becomes rough and he kisses her again, this time a quick press of the lips before his hands move back to her waist and pull her against him.

Her own hand drops between them and feels him through his trunks again, where he is now almost painfully hard. It's her turn to smile, as she tugs down the waistband of his trunks. She exhales quietly, and she has to feel the shudder that scampers through him at the sensation of her breath on his skin.

He clutches at her hips, rolling down the straps of her bathing suit with his thumbs, suddenly aggressive, and she responds, lifting her hips to allow him access. "Please—" she breathes against his mouth, taking his hard erection in her hand and guiding to where she clearly wants it.

"You got it," he returns, sliding into her and taking a moment to get the feel of her again.

He takes her hands and pins them above her head as he finds a confident, not violent but not lazy rhythm that has her fingers gripping his tightly enough to cut off the circulation. She's intoxicating, though he would have expected nothing less; the tight muscles of her inner walls clamp around him, her one leg slung around his waist keeps him moving, her mouth gives him encouragement. And when she's about to come, she wrenches her hands free from his grasp and her fingernails dig into his shoulders, lips parting and allowing a few high-pitched gasps to escape from her throat. Then she finally comes and she's a vision, her dark eyes glazing over and her neck and back arching in ecstasy. His thrusts lose their careful rhythm as he continues through her orgasm and her own hips begin returning the movement, rising to meet his as she heads toward another climax, this time drawing lines down his arms and back and panting desperately in his ear.

Thrusting into her a few more times, driving her into the rough sand before allowing his orgasm to consume him, he also finds himself digging his nails into her waist, and she joins him as well, swallowing his moans with a weak yet consuming kiss.

For a moment, he lies on top of her, breathing in the scent of salt that clings to her skin, both from sweat and from the water, and allowing her hands to slowly trace his shoulders. Then he rolls away, nonchalantly tugging up his trunks. She doesn't do the same, remaining exposed with her suit practically off, but she turns onto her side, leaning on her elbow, to look at him. He reaches out to brush the hair that falls into her eyes off of her face, and it's rough and saturated with sand.

He plants a kiss on her throat. "We should do this all the time," he whispers.

"I would like that."


End file.
